


Sleepover

by Bobcatmoran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Not Shippy, sorry if that's what you were looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-11 07:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11709567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobcatmoran/pseuds/Bobcatmoran
Summary: Feuilly spends a rainy night with Enjolras and Combeferre.





	Sleepover

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a request from takethewatch for "something about Feuilly actually taking care of himself for once? (or being bullied into it by friends)."

“I’m telling you, Enjolras, there’s no need to worry. I won’t melt if I walk home in the rain,” Feuilly said. “It’s only water. I’ll dry off.”

Enjolras glanced at the window, the darkening scene outside barely visible through the rain sheeting down the glass. “You know you’re more than welcome to stay here — it’s no imposition. At least wait until the storm has died down somewhat.”

“No,” Feuilly said, shrugging on his coat. “I would love to stay and continue discussing Rousseu with you, truly I would, but I had best be going. The street at the bottom of the hill near my room tends to flood, and I would like to get home before it gets too bad.”

“If you’re certain? Combeferre and I have enough room that you could even spend the night.”

“Thank you, Enjolras, but I really should head home.” Feuilly paused, hand on the door. “Where is Combeferre anyhow? I thought he’d be back from his shift at the Necker by now.”

“He usually is,” Enjolras said with a frown. “Perhaps he found somewhere to wait out the storm?”

“I hope so. Well, good night,” Feuilly said.

“Get home safely,” Enjolras said. He watched Feuilly leave, frowning. It really wasn’t weather to be out. Feuilly was certainly more than capable of managing, but that didn’t mean that his friends didn’t worry about him all the same. Enjolras sighed and moved to try and clear some room on the table so he could work on a letter to the group in Lyon that Feuilly had been in contact with.

No sooner had he managed to shift the books on the table into a haphazard pile — it was a bit unsteady, but the tower of print would probably not fall over, Enjolras felt — than there was a knock at the door, followed by low, murmured voices, and a rather damp Feuilly followed by an absolutely drenched Combeferre walked in.

“The street in front of Madame Poilane’s café is flooded,” Feuilly announced.

Enjolras frowned, worried. “Not so high that it’s getting into the buildings, is it?”

“Nearly so,” Combeferre said. “The sewer drain was clogged, but with Feuilly’s help, I removed the dead cat and wad of leaves that were causing the obstruction.” He then added, seeing the face that Enjolras was making, “We used a stick, don’t worry.” He pulled off his boots with a sucking sound, and, his stockings soggily squishing against the floor, carried them over to a basin where he emptied them of a quantity of water.

“With the roads this bad, though,” Feuilly said, “I’m afraid I may be stranded here for the night.”

Combeferre paused in wringing out his coat. “I told you, there’s no problem in you sleeping over. We have the room.”

Feuilly looked around at the clutter of books, scientific equipment, half-finished writings, and general disarray that came when two young men with a casual approach to housekeeping roomed together. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“The bedroom is a bit less cluttered,” Enjolras said.

“A bit,” Combeferre echoed. “And if we clear off the sofa, it makes for quite a comfortable bed. I’ve slept on it many a night back before Enjolras and I were sharing lodgings. In fact,” he said, gathering an armful of books off the sofa, “I can take the sofa for tonight and you can have my bed.”

“Oh, no, Combeferre, I couldn’t possibly —”

“I insist.” Combeferre said. “Besides, as I said, it wouldn’t be my first night on the sofa.”

Feuilly made a distressed noise. “You’re getting the books all damp, here, let me —” he then seemed to notice for the first time how he was nearly as wet as Combeferre. “Or, rather, don’t let me, or let me once I’ve changed into a dry shirt, only all my dry shirts are at home, and…” he trailed off, looking quite upset.

“We should both change into dry clothes,” Combeferre said. “It wouldn’t do for either of us to catch cold. Come, you can borrow a nightshirt.”

Feuilly scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Fine,” he said, but made no move to follow Combeferre. In the awkward silence, Combeferre’s stomach growled loudly.

“Have you eaten supper?” Enjolras asked.

“Well, I had picked up something to bring back, but…” Combeferre dug into a coat pocket and pulled out a soggy package. He gingerly peeled off a sodden layer of paper. “Hm.” Further excavations revealed a sad, soggy pile of beige mush. “I fear this patient may be beyond hopes of resuscitation,” Combeferre diagnosed, sadly.

“I think we still have some bread and that good melting cheese you picked up yesterday,” Enjolras said, crossing the room and pulling things out of a cupboard. “Go on, change. I can make something for you to eat. Feuilly and I, too. I fear we may have neglected our own sustenance.”

“Oh, I don’t need anything,” Feuilly said, as his own stomach contradicted him with a discontented rumble. The tips of his ears went red with embarrassment.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m cooking anyhow, and it would be remiss of me to not make something for you, when it’s my fault that you’ve missed your supper.”

* * *

 

“I was unaware that Enjolras knew how to cook,” Feuilly said, standing awkwardly in the bedroom as Combeferre rummaged around.

“Barely,” Combeferre said. “I would be willing to wager that he is making toasted cheese sandwiches, since it’s the only thing that he knows how to make.” He sniffed at a shirt. “Here, I believe this one is clean.” He tossed it to Feuilly, who caught it deftly.

Feuilly pulled it on in place of his damp shirt, adding to the wet pile of clothing on the floor. The hem of the dry shirt fell at mid-shin, and the sleeves hung well over the ends of his fingers.

“Decent?” Combeferre asked. When Feuilly assented, he turned around. “Oh, dear. That must be one of Enjolras’. Would you prefer one of mine instead?”

Feuilly looked at Combeferre, who was nearly as tall as Enjolras, and broader besides. “I don’t know that it would fit any better. This will work fine for tonight.” He set to rolling the sleeves up.

“I’d offer you a spare set of trousers as well, but I fear those would be just as ill-fitting,” Combeferre said.

“I hardly need them. This is halfway to being a dress.”

“Still, I wouldn’t want to see you catch cold after being out in the rain. I think we actually have a dressing gown somewhere that will fit you.”

“Oh?”

“It was a gift from Enjolras’ great-aunt, who apparently hadn’t seen him since he was twelve years old and had assumed that he hadn’t grown since then.”

“Are you implying that I’m as tall as a twelve year old?” Feuilly asked.

“No, no, not at all, just—” Combeferre looked up, worried that he’d inadvertently insulted Feuilly. He then saw the smile, threatening to break into a grin, on Feuilly’s face. “Ah. That was sarcasm.” Combeferre dug around in a trunk, apparently trying to identify the dressing gown by feel. “Eureka!” He pulled out a garish garment, a startling shade of yellow with a pattern of pink and blue roses that was, indeed, just about the right length to fit Feuilly.

“That’s very…er…bright,” Feuilly said.

“Not quite Enjolras’ style, is it?” Combeferre said.

“I didn’t know he owned anything that colorful,” Feuilly said. “He told me once that dressing in sober colors means that he has to waste less time on fashion. Sensible, I suppose.”

“It was a gift, after all,” Combeferre said. “But it will keep you warm, for the rest of the evening, anyhow.”

Feuilly looked at the proffered garment, shrugged, and put it on.

Enjolras knocked on the bedroom door. “Supper’s nearly ready.”

“You go on ahead,” Combeferre said, turning back to rummaging. “I know I have a clean shirt somewhere,” he muttered to himself.

* * *

 

Feuilly had been rather expecting Enjolras to laugh, or at least make that sort of queer half-smile that often passed for amusement by his standards at the sight of him in the garish dressing gown. Instead, Enjolras merely said, “Oh, you found that dressing gown from Aunt Anne. I’m glad to see that it fits. You may keep it if you like. It’s far too small for me, and though you can tailor a too-large garment to fit smaller, the reverse does not work as well.”

“It seems a bit extravagant, a coat designed just for wearing indoors, in private,” Feuilly said, looking down at what he was wearing.

“It probably is, but she insisted that a proper gentleman should have one.”

“And you are a proper gentleman, I suppose,” Combeferre quipped, coming out of the bedroom in fresh clothes, carrying his and Feuilly’s sodden garments, which he arranged in front of the stove.

“In her eyes, I am one so long as she does not know about my politics. She is a royalist, through and through.” Enjolras said the word  _royalist_  with tone of utter disgust. “But come, the food is best eaten when it’s still hot.”

Three plates were set at the table, each with a sandwich upon it. “The burnt one is mine,” Enjolras said. “I always have trouble mastering the timing on the first one.”

“You could just scrape off the blackened part and it would be fine,” Feuilly said. He examined the sandwich nearest him. “So you toasted the bread and then put the cheese between the slices? Is the residual warmth enough to melt the cheese?

"Actually, Bahorel taught me the trick. You butter the bread, assemble the sandwich, and then toast the entire assemblage on both sides in a pan on the stove. The heat seeps through the bread and melts the cheese, while simultaneously toasting the bread. It’s quite efficient.”

“Hm.” Feuilly took a bite, crunching through the outer layer of bread, then into the soft inner layer, with the gooey cheese in the center. “Mmmph.” He chewed and swallowed, an expression of bliss on his face. “Enjolras, this is amazing.”

“I’m glad you like it, my friend.”

“Just the thing on a cold, rainy night,” Combeferre said, quickly devouring his own sandwich. “Ah, and Feuilly, one of my patients today was a recent émigré from Greece. She had some news of Kapodistrias that might interest you…”

Sitting in the warmth of Enjolras and Combeferre’s rooms, wrapped in a borrowed dressing gown, stomach full, and listening to talk of the latest news from Eastern Europe while the rain pattered on the windows; content that, the next day being Sunday, he could sleep in as long as he liked, Feuilly found himself smiling. This evening had been everything he could have asked for.


End file.
